


Moving Day

by AnnieVH



Series: Don't Come Back [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Bad Parenting, Gen, Grandparents & Grandchildren, pre-rumbelle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 02:24:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5726278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieVH/pseuds/AnnieVH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle prepares the house and Rumple brings Bae to meet his grandfather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving Day

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: past domestic abuse (including psychological, verbal and sexual), past child abuse, terrible parenting all around. Anti-Milah, anti-Malcolm. Rated mature just for safety.
> 
> Verse: Don't Come Back, a Behind Closed Doors remix
> 
> Beta: MaddieBonanaFana

Moving day.

 

 

A deal was made on Saturday night that Belle would work on Sunday to get the house ready for the arrival of Mr. Gold's son and grandson. In exchange, she could have the next weekend off, from Friday night to Monday morning. While the thought of having to stare at Gold one more day was unpleasant, Belle was comforted by the prospect of having an entire weekend to herself for the first time in six months. There were so many things she could do with that extra day. That is, if she could still walk by the end of the week, because Gold seemed determined to exhaust her.

His house, which was one of the largest in town, had five bedrooms. The biggest belonged to Gold himself. Right next to it, there was a guest bedroom that was never used but that Belle was expected to maintain to perfection anyway. Two rooms were filled with clutter, and the last one was empty but for a bed frame. So, of course, he asked her to move the clutter out of the two least accessible bedrooms and into the basement, at least while he figured out what to do with it. Belle would be willing to bet anything that Gold's first order on Monday would be to move everything to the attic.

Still, with her eyes on her upcoming weekend and the promise of 48 hours without her employer breathing down her neck and eyeing up her skirt, Belle got to work. The old man let her be for the rest of the day, preferring to seclude himself in his study, but if she stopped to catch her breath, it wouldn't take long before she heard his voice, practically singing the words: “Princess! I can't hear you moving! Are we feeling lazy today?”

Belle bit her tongue before she could point out she was not the one sitting comfortably in an armchair, sipping tea. This was her job, whether she liked it or not, and putting up with that horrible man was part of it. And now, his son and grandchild would be doing the same, if Gold's choice of accommodations for his family was any indication of his resentment.

In a house as nice as this, Belle would never claim that the two bedrooms were bad, but they were the smallest and, from that position, she doubted they ever got much direct sunlight. The house was always freezing, so Belle couldn't assess the heater, but it seemed to be working just fine. There wasn't much in terms of furniture, once the boxes and junk were gone. The smallest bedroom had a single bed with an old mattress, a closet, and a bedside table big enough for a lamp; the second room had a set of drawers that Belle inspected carefully for termites or worse.

“Goodness, you've made a mess,” Gold remarked, coming up to check on her work and seeing piles of boxes and suitcases in the corridor.

“I'll start moving everything right away, Mr. Gold.”

“Yes, yes,” he dismissed, going into the smallest room and trying out the bed. After two seconds, he declared, “That's good enough.”

Belle eyed the mattress from the door. It looked pretty thin and worn out.

“What should I do about the other room, Mr. Gold?” Belle asked.

“Just move everything into the basement. Felix will stop by later and help you move the heavier furniture from the guest bedroom.”

Belle tried not to betray her displeasure. No one was as bad as Gold, but Felix Greene got dangerously close to it. He was just as arrogant and treated Belle just as poorly. The only difference was that he had no power over her whatsoever because he was nothing but a minion himself, in charge of collecting rent and terrorizing people. Occasionally, he was also enlisted for the heavy lifting.

“Should we move everything?”

He shrugged. “I'm not sure what I'll be doing with that room yet. Might as well leave it empty. After Felix is gone, you can get the bedrooms ready.”

Belle rolled her shoulders, feeling the ache of sore muscles, but she didn't complain. Complaining would get her no kindness from the old man.

“Do you know which is going to be the boy's room, Mr. Gold?”

“Why?”

“Well, I just thought... he's a young man. Maybe I could bring him something to help him feel at home. Games or... something.”

“He doesn't need to feel at home,” Gold said. “He'll be gone in six months, hopefully less.” He looked around the bedroom a second time. “Give this one to Junior. It used to be his anyway.”

“I can switch the mattresses-”

“Why?”

Belle stared at her employer. The reason was apparent to her, because that mattress was as thin as paper. Gold's son didn't seem to be very old, maybe early forties, but lying on that bed wasn't going to be easy on his back.

“Just leave it the way it is,” he said. “It's fine. And get to work, Princess. I don't pay you to stand there and look pretty.”

 

*

 

Rumple stared at the front door for a very long time, gathering courage to do what had to be done. Though courage might not be the right word for it. More like swallowing his pride. Fifteen years before, father had told him to leave the house and never come back, at least for as long as he still had Milah and the little bastard. Those words had stung, but Rumple had found solace in the fact that he still had a family. Back then, he believed with all his heart he'd never need his father or his money again, especially not under such extreme circumstances. He was all set up for the proverbial happy ending.

“Gullible idiot,” he muttered to himself, and rang the bell.

The maid greeted him within minutes.

“Good morning, Mr. Gold,” she offered a practiced smile.

“Morning, Miss...”

“Belle.”

He nodded. “Belle. Yes. Is my father home?”

“He is waiting for you in the study.”

A little part of him had hoped that the old man would just leave a contract for him to sign, but no such luck. His father was careful with business. Besides, his wayward son was back to beg for scraps. Not a chance in hell he'd miss that.

“Where is your son?” Belle asked, as he entered the foyer and she took his coat.

“At the diner. He wanted to have breakfast.”

“I could have prepared something.”

Would meals even be included in the contract? Rumple wasn't sure, but he wasn't hopeful.

His father was behind his desk when Rumple came into the study, a place he had occupied most of his childhood. Even though he was a grown man now, the sight of the old man still made him shiver. Malcolm was not a large man, but he was still imposing. The way he leaned back on his chair, the careless way he reached for a pen, it all implied the utmost control he had over every aspect of his life, especially within the walls of his office. This was his domain, everything in it belonged to him, and that included his only child.

At his right elbow, a tall, gray man dressed in an expensive suit stood in wait. He raised his eyes to watch Rumple come into the room, but didn't say a word.

“Junior! Welcome home, laddie!” Malcolm greeted, without warmth and without getting out of his chair.

Rumple replied much in the same fashion, offering him a very impersonal “Father.”

“What is this? Where is the lad?”

“He's at the diner. In case you wanted to change your mind.”

“You offend me,” he said, though he sounded more amused than anything else. “Never have I ever gone back on my word.”

Rumple decided not to waste time arguing that. He pointed at the papers.

“Is that my contract?”

“Yes. Albert drafted it himself.”

On cue, the gray man came around the table to shake Rumple's hand.

“Albert Spencer, Mr. Gold,” he said. “Very nice to meet you. I will be dealing with all legal matters from now on.” Spencer looked at Malcolm, asking permission without uttering a word. When his boss nodded, the lawyer reached for the papers and handed them over. “Why don't you look it over? We can discuss anything that isn't to your liking.”

Rumple took the papers so carefully that it made his father chuckle. He didn't trust the lawyer, and he didn't trust whatever it was that he had written down. If he had the time, he'd go over ever line with a magnifying glass, looking for the fine print that was bound to screw up his life and Bae's. But after the first three paragraphs, his body started to relax and he felt stupid for being so paranoid. The contract was clear and to the point, he would work for his father part time for no less than two months, performing all and any tasks that were required of him, including, but not limited to, the management of the pawnshop. An extension could be negotiated. In exchange, Malcolm would provide a place for him and his son to stay, and (surprise!) two meals a day, dinner and breakfast. Bae was not allowed to work, for Malcolm or anyone else, but he was expected to stay in school, all expenses to be covered by his father. The final clause explicitly stated that Malcolm was contractually obligated to keep Milah away, by any legal means necessary.

As far as deals with the Devil went, this one was not nearly as bad.

“Are you satisfied?” his father asked, as he turned the last page.

“I think it's fair,” Rumple answered. “I only have one question.”

“My my,” Spencer chuckled, with calculated amusement. “Your son is very thorough.”

“How do you plan on protecting my son?”

“You mean,” Malcolm said, “how do I plan on keeping you safe from your crazy ex-wife?” He turned to Spencer. Rumple didn't try to stop him. “I believe I've mentioned the situation to you, didn't I, Albert?”

“You did.” To Rumple, he said, “I had a girlfriend slash the four tires on my Mercedes once. Women, right?”

Spencer laughed.

Rumple had to hold his tongue to not say he had gotten lucky.

“I've talked to the Sheriff's Department,” Malcolm said. “They seem very keen on keeping an eye out for her. But they said it would be best if you stopped by and explained the situation. If necessary, I can get a bodyguard, but lets hope it won't come to that.”

“Does that seem acceptable to you, Mr. Gold?” Spencer asked.

Rumple thought it over. Storybrooke was a small town, with an even smaller Sheriff's Department, as far as he could remember. If things hadn't changed much, law enforcement was still in his father's pocket, ready to do his bidding. He didn't know if that made him feel secure or uneasy. What he did know was that Milah would always be the worse alternative.

He signed his name on the dotted line.

 

*

 

Things were different now. Baelfire couldn't put it into words, he had never been too good with them, but it was clear to him nonetheless. He caught himself doing strange things now, like looking over his shoulder, or wondering every five minutes what was taking his father so long. He was always on the edge of his seat, ready to jump out of it and run. He was always waiting for _something_ to happen. He wasn't sure what it was, but it was bad, and he wouldn't be able to fight it when it came.

His dad could feel it too. He tried to hide it, but it was wearing him down. Except that, in him, the change was easier to see. There were wrinkles and strands of gray hair that hadn't been there one year before. And he still had nightmares. Bae had those too, but not as frequently as his father, and not as bad either.

Life wasn't like this before the divorce. It wasn't good, but it wasn't like _this_. He should have kept his big mouth shut. Then, they'd still be living together, the three of them, walking on eggshells and faking smiles to appease his mother, yes, but still better off.

Bae shoved a large piece of pancake into his mouth and chewed without pleasure. It was done now, and it had been the right decision, dad had said so many times. There was no point in dwelling on the past. What's done is done.

“We just have to get smart, that's all,” dad said. “And be careful.”

Get smart. Be careful. Didn't sound like much, but it had become their motto. Right now, it meant keeping the bags close and not moving from his chair until dad came back to get him. Which was taking forever.

“Sure you don't want anything else?” the waitress asked. She had been friendly since he arrived, and Bae felt guilty for the miserable tip he'd have to leave her.

“No, I'm good. Thanks.”

“I like your drawing.”

Bae looked at his napkin. He had been trying to imagine his grandfather's house, though his father hadn't been very forthcoming about it, other than saying it was big and comfortable. The resulting sketch was a bit of a mess and he hated it. He missed his old drawings, and his old sketching pad. If he ever got a new one, he'd be careful not to leave it behind next time they left in a hurry.

He said, “Thanks.”

“Are you a big artist where you came from?” she teased.

Bae smiled, but didn't answer. Dad said not to give strangers any kind of information. They never knew who Milah would be talking to.

“You artists are all quiet, mysterious types, aren't you?”

“I guess.”

The waitress laughed. To his relief, his father entered the dinner before she could ask another question.

Bae jumped off his seat. “And?”

“We can go,” Rumple answered.

“Like, go home, or like, go?”

“Go to your grandfather's house. Whatever that means,” he sighed.

“Cool, right?” Bae asked, throwing the backpack over his shoulder and trying not to think of how light it felt. Did everything they owned really added up to this? A backpack and two bags? “I mean, that's what we wanted.”

His father nodded, but it didn't feel like he agreed.

“You really don't like grandpa, do you?”

Rumple patted his head and tried to smile. “I don't have to like grandpa, I just have to tolerate him for a couple of months. Now, why don't you pay for the pancakes? It's quite the walk to your grandfather's house.”

Bae did as he was told and followed his father outside. His grandfather lived on the other side of town, but Storybrooke was so small that it didn't take them more than thirty minutes on foot. Bae asked questions at first, curious about the place where his father grew up. He must have all sorts of stories. Milah was always telling them about her childhood in London, and then her early teenage years in Portland. Dad had to have a past too.

But Rumple met every question with an evasive answer.

“What did you do for fun when you were my age?”

“Nothing much. Played.”

“Did you go to the woods?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did grandpa take you camping?”

“No.”

“Can we go camping?”

“Maybe.”

The only time he volunteered information was when they walked by the library and he pointed at the clock tower that was right above it.

“We used to live there, when you were little. There's an apartment there. You see that window?”

Bae nodded.

“That was our living room.”

“Did I like it there?”

“You liked the clock. That was your very first word. Clock.”

Bae didn't remember anything about Storybrooke. Then again, he was only four when they left town.

_Maybe grandpa has some pictures?_

Rumple only spoke again when they arrived in front of the right house. “Here it is. Here's where we're going to live for a little while.”

Bae was too surprised to say anything. His father had mentioned the house was big, but... this was way bigger than anything the boy had imagined.

“You grew up _here_?” he asked, baffled.

“I did,” Rumple answered, sounding melancholy, though Bae couldn't imagine why.

The boy had spent all of his life in crammed up apartments where there was always something to be fixed, be it the cold water or the lights or an unexpected leak. And ever since the divorce, things hadn't got any more comfortable. The last two months were spent in little motel rooms, where they'd be lucky to get two beds. The thought of moving into a place like _this_ was hard to grasp. Even if grandpa turned out to be a monster, Bae would gladly sleep in his attic if he could call it home for more than a couple of weeks.

“This is so cool!”

“Your grandfather was going to work, so we'll have plenty of time to settle. The maid will get us a copy of the key later.”

He rang the doorbell and started explaining something about breakfast and dinner, and keeping the house clean, but when the door opened and the maid appeared, Bae forgot everything.

She said, “You must be Baelfire,” and smiled. At least, Bae thought she was smiling, he couldn't be sure. His eyes were not looking at her mouth. And he was aware of it – which meant that _she_ was definitely aware of it and, god, this was embarrassing, but he couldn't help it. Women didn't dress like this to work in Boston. Well, not to work as a maid, as far as he knew.

“Baelfire?”

Would she be working around the house like this every day? Wouldn't that be... uncomfortable? Like, for everybody?

“Bae!”

Right. He should say something. Say good morning. Or that he was sorry. Or just hi. How do you talk to women dressed like... that?

His father nudged him on the ribs and Bae snapped out of it. His eyes dropped to her heels. Yes, shoes. There was nothing remotely interesting about shoes. Nothing to see here.

“Morning, Miss Belle.”

“I'm sorry, he's a little tired from the trip,” his father said, saving him from further embarrassment.

“Not a problem. Come in, it's no good for the two of you to stay out in the cold.”

Her shoes moved aside, letting them pass. Bae didn't look at her, but when he glanced up at his father, Rumple had a warning in his eyes. _Behave_.

“Are you hungry?” Belle asked. “I can prepare you a sandwich. Or an early lunch.”

“I'm fine, Miss Belle. Thank you.”

“Just Belle is fine.”

“We need to unpack,” Rumple said, noticing Baelfire wouldn't be fully functional for the next couple of minutes. “Can you show us to our-”

“Is that my grandson?”

His father jumped and Bae finally dared to look up – Belle did him the favor of stepping out of his line of sight. At the end of the corridor, standing in a doorway, there was a man, looking at him with unfamiliar eyes. If this was his grandpa, there was no trace of his father on his face, r his height, or his posture.

Rumple asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” was the other man's dismissive answer. “Don't be insolent.”

“You said you were going to work.”

“I was. I work from home.”

“Right.” Rumple pulled his son closer. “Bae, this is Malcolm. My father.”

Bae said, “Hi,” with a little voice.

Malcolm snapped his tongue and motioned for someone to come closer. Bae hoped he meant Belle, or his father, but then came the order, “Come here, laddie. I want to take a look at you.”

Bae eyed his father, whose hand started gripping his shoulder.

Malcolm said, “You know, timidness is not a good trait for a young man.”

The older man spoke with some humor, but there was something not so friendly underneath it, and that set Bae into motion. When he moved, he could feel his father's nails clawing at him, reluctant to let him go. He wasn't sure what Malcolm wanted from him, but he was pretty sure it wasn't a hug, so he made sure to stand a couple of feet away and let the other man take a good look at him.

After a minute, he asked, “How old are you?”

“I'll be fifteen in May.”

“So practically fifteen.”

“I guess.”

“Are you a good student?”

“I guess.'

“Bae,” his father called. “Let your grandfather go back to work. We-”

“Stop nagging the kid, Junior,” Malcolm said. “He's old enough to speak for himself, aren't you, laddie?”

Bae shrugged, not wanting to disagree with his father, but he couldn't repress a smile.

Malcolm looked him over once again. “You don't look much like your dad. Junior was scraggy when he was your age.”

Bae wasn't sure if that was a compliment or criticism, so he didn't say a word.

“At least your father was quiet, most of the time,” he continued. “Are you quiet?”

Rumple tried to answer, “He's quiet, dad. Let him-”

But his grandfather cut in, “I am talking to the lad,” and then looked at Bae again.

“Uhn, I'm quiet,” Bae answered. For good measure, he added, “Sir.”

“And I don't want you to make a mess.”

“I won't. Sir.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes, considering things. Then, he ruffled the boy's head. It wasn't an affectionate gesture, not like when his father did it, but it made things clear. Bae was deemed acceptable, and that meant they could stay.

“You're a good kid,” he said, turning his back to return to his study.

“What do I call you? Sir?” Bae asked, as the door was closing.

“Malcolm. This grandfather crap makes me feel old.”

With that, the older man vanished inside his office. Bae turned to his father, who sighed. “Right. As far as first interactions go, this could have gone worse.”

 


End file.
